The north hall still smelled of new timber.
Forty metres of sprung floor with the lines freshly painted on it, wall padding up to shoulder height, and a ceiling high enough that a person with a four-metre wingspan could open them fully and not scrape anything. Nobody had said that out loud when the plans were drawn. James suspected Maeve had specified it anyway.
Everybody had slept. Nobody was hurt. The Waiting Room had put them all back together after Floor 29 and there was no ache in any of them that was not just a Tuesday.
That was almost the worst part. There was nothing to fix except the thing they had come to fix.
Finn stood in the middle of the floor with an axe in each hand and no armour on.
"Right. One rule before anyone starts. We are not trying to beat her."
Cillian raised a hand. "Sorry, just — obviously?"
